


Offering and Acceptance  Part 3

by fragrantwoods



Category: Deadwood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:16:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragrantwoods/pseuds/fragrantwoods





	Offering and Acceptance  Part 3

_**Offering and Acceptance Part 3**_  


 **  
**

  
"Christ, they have snaps, y’know. If you’ll get up—“

“No.” She was starting to enjoy herself. “You took a knife to my undergarments before. I think it’s only fair I get to do the same.”

 _Well, this is…different_. He blew a lock of hair out of his eyes.

  
“We were running from a fucking _fire_ at the time, if you’ll recall.”

  


  
She waited, hand out. Her chemise had fallen off one shoulder, revealing smooth planes of throat and shoulder, light traceries of blue veins under the skin. She looked like a painting in a rich man’s house.

  


  
He shrugged. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He pulled a small knife with a gleaming blade out of his nightstand, extended it handle first with his left hand, folding his right arm behind his pillow against the headboard, leaning his head back. 

  


  
“Thank you.” 

  


  
She smiled as she shifted backwards, revealing the bottom snap. She popped the snap open, eyes drawn for a second to the thick black hair, then inserted the blade carefully under the fabric. He lay perfectly still as her knuckles ran over his skin, the faded cotton parting along the seam. His eyes turned darker as the blade was drawn closer to the snaps at the middle of his belly, then up to his chest. He could hear her breath coming faster as he tightened his grip on the small Derringer behind his pillow. She stopped.

  


  
He let out the breath he had been holding. He could still feel the path her fingers had followed up his body.

  


  
“Now what?”

  


  
“Be patient.” She had been told to be patient so many times; it felt good to be the one saying it for a change.

  


  
She shifted to get a better angle, rubbing damp silk against him. He looked once at her eyes, dark and glittering, then back at her hand holding the knife. Moving more surely now, she ran the blade through the material over his chest, slicing along the seams in the arms, cutting hard at the cuffs. He gave an involuntary twitch as her knuckles ran over the sensitive inside of his upper arm.

  


  
“You ever filet anything…or anybody? You seem pretty fucking good at this.”

  


  
“Hush, please.” She turned on his body, pivoting until she was facing away from him. Her hands being out of sight, and so close to delicate areas, made him start to sweat, but his right hand stayed behind his pillow. 

  


  
She turned and looked at him over her bare shoulder.

  


  
“I had no idea you’d be this big.”

  


  
He was still thinking how to respond to that when she bent her head to her task again and carefully split the fabric down his legs, cutting the cuffs with a jerk. The smell of orange-wood and musk was stronger now. She turned back around, studying his naked skin and scattered black hair, so different from the last man she had seen naked. More bulk than lean, thickly muscled. _A bull, to Mr. Bullock’s stallion_ , she thought.

She looked at him with a serious expression and handed him back his knife, handle first. He noted with some surprise that his heart had started to beat faster, pulse racing like he’d just dodged a punch. He dropped the knife in the open drawer, then slowly pulled his right hand from behind his head, carefully laying the small pistol on the nightstand, eyes still on her face. He was expecting fear, or maybe anger, disappointment.

  


  
Alma smiled. “You’re a careful man.”

  


  
He nodded, amused at her acceptance. _The widow is not easily spooked, looks like._ “A trait that’s served me well through the years.”

  


  
He figured she’d want to start the kissing and such, although he was starting to think he really didn’t know _what_ the fuck she wanted. He reached up to put his arms around her. He felt her thighs and knees tighten against his hips.

  


  
“No. Keep still, please.”

  


  
He shrugged and put his hands behind his head, relieved to just lie there, free to react without artifice.

  


  
Her eyes rose to his.

  


  
“More weapons?”

  


  
 _Not easily spooked, but not incautious, either._  


  


  
 _  
_“Nope. Just settling in for the ride.”

  


  
More wriggles and stretches and her last layer of clothing was on the floor. 

  


  
He could see how she had fucked with Bullock’s head so bad. Taut thighs joining at an apex of thick black curls, now damp and hot; flat belly, smooth skin, tits firm and high. He’d put out twice his usual limit, maybe more, to buy a whore that looked that good. _Probably not what she was lookin’ to hear…best keep that to myself._  


  


  
 _  
_“You look…really pretty, Alma.” _Didn't see how he could go wrong with that._  


  


  
 _  
_She shushed him again as she lifted her hands to her hair. With a few twists and tugs, her wavy black hair started falling down her breasts and back. She leaned forward to put the pins on the table, grinding against him as she moved, the ends of her hair feathering along his belly and chest. She smiled as she felt him twitch underneath. He lifted himself to grind against her. Sighing, she tilted her head back, swaths of silky black hair falling against his thighs and between his legs.

  


  
His skin felt shivery where she touched him. He hadn’t recovered from the feelings he had been having while she cut his fuckin’ clothes off. He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around that experience, why it made sparks fly. He figured he’d probably fucked _some_ body or other at least fifty, sixty times a year, with blow-jobs most days in between. How the hell could he be feeling anything so new and unusual? _And from an amateur, at that._  


  


  
 _  
_Alma reached down and fondled him for a few seconds, then rose up on her knees, carefully positioning him at her entrance. He was already slippery from his own excitement…she remembered that part. She bit her lower lip at a flash of memory, looked at Al’s now clenched hands, no longer so relaxed, one squeezing a fistful of bedsheet.

  


  
“Alma, _Jesus_ …”

  


  
White hands on dark shoulders, she pushed down hard against him, groaning an “Oh, God” against the stretch as he filled her. 

  


  
“Oh, _fuck_ , Alma… _God_ …” he rumbled between gritted teeth. He hadn’t expected such a tight, hot sheath. Hadn’t had anyone like that in years. Maybe never. Not with the hair and the pins and the knife and the looks and the graceful moves…he put his hands on her hips and quit thinking in words for a while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
Alma’s thighs were trembling. Muscles she hadn’t used since her riding days were starting to protest. She had fallen forward, her weight on her arms, her face close to his rough cheek, breathing against his mouth. The soreness had passed and he was hitting something delightful inside of her. She’d gotten a rhythm of rocking at the top of his stroke, and grinding against his body at the bottom, almost duplicating the feelings she got from stroking and pressing herself to orgasm. She wasn’t focused on that right now. It felt lovely just to be all in skin and wet and heat and a man’s deep breathing. He was so…fleshy and hard and rough. _So different_.

  


  
He felt her start to quiver, thinking first she was shamming coming to hurry his finish, then came to his senses and realized she was tiring out. 

  


  
“Get off me.” 

  


  
She looked at him in surprise, and then saw his sympathetic look. She lifted herself up off him and lay on her side, waiting to see what was next. 

  


  
“Lie on your back.” 

  


  
She stretched out as he asked, feeling her thighs start to relax. She felt like she’d taken a drop or two of laudanum, all warm and floating.

  


  
“Alma. Reach behind your head.”

She did so, feeling the sturdy posts in the middle of the headboard. 

  


  
“You hold on to those."

  


  
She looked at his long black hair, damp with sweat, his mouth hard and serious. The sweet fresh scent of oranges had been blasted away by the smell of cedar and sex. With his eyes almost black in the afternoon light, countenance shadowed, he looked positively satanic. She thought that, in a twisted way, that was quite a good look for him. 

  


  
She met his eyes as she wrapped her hands around the posts, and smiled with languid challenge.

  


  
“Ready.”

  


  
He almost smiled then, parting his lips, white teeth against swarthy skin. He rolled over onto her welcoming body ,and started the hard fucking he’d been imagining for weeks.

  


  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  


  
Her breath was coming in gasps, his body coming down hard on hers, pushing the air out of her lungs. If she hadn’t been bracing herself with her hands she was sure she would have cracked her head on the headboard several times over. Now he was rubbing against her in different areas, especially nice when she was able to move her hips. 

  


   
She tried to move with some type of erotic rhythm, but finally gave up against his force and wrapped her legs around his thighs. She was still getting enough friction in the right places. She could feel her belly start to wind, low and tight inside. 

  


  
Eyes open but staring at nothing, breath coming in gasps, Al thrust deeper, raising himself off her chest. He wrapped one hand around hers, still gripping the posts. With a guttural groan he finished, jerking and shuddering a few times before rolling off of her, gasping, wiping sweat from his eyes. 

  


  
She unwrapped her hands from the hard wooden posts and lay still, trying to get her breathing under control. Their fluids pooled beneath her as her pulse thudded in her temples. Her heart slowed and she finally felt like she could speak again. She took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh.

  


  
She turned to him and smiled. ‘That was lovely.” She stretched her legs. “Thanks for having me.”

  


  
He raised an eyebrow.

  


  
“Funny.” He returned her smile. “Thanks for invitin’ me in.”

  


  
“Funny.” She stretched out the muscles along her sides, rocking her hips at the end.

  


  
He propped himself on his side, looking at her thoughtfully. 

  


  
“Open your legs a little more.”

  


  
“ _Surely_ you must be joking.” Even if he could be ready so soon, she could already tell she’d be sore by morning.

  


  
“Just…trust me.”

  


  
She raised an eyebrow and did as he said. 

  


  
Once he started, all the old stroking and circling rhythms, the reading of breathing and movement cues, it all came back to him. She must have been more willing to go with her sensations than the women he had serviced with treatments so long ago. It wasn’t taking much at all.

  


  
She was whimpering, breath catching, and grabbing for the bedposts again, arching hips, back and finally her slender neck, as he stroked and moved in the folds around, and at the sides, then top of her most sensitive flesh. He was impressed at her responsiveness. The orgasmic spasms hit hard enough for her back to jerk completely off the bed. He could feel her insides clenching as she pushed against his hand. He thought he could feel her heartbeat there.

  


  
She looked at him with wide astonished eyes. 

  


  
“My goodness…that was…I couldn’t have done better…”she trailed off.

  


  
As she took deep breaths, lying there with the cool air between her legs, she felt another winding gathering, a tightening sensation.

  


  
“I wonder…would it be horribly greedy to ask that you do that again?”

  


  
Al laughed. “Now?” He ran his fingers over her stomach and down her side, then just below her navel, lightly.

“Yes, please.” She braced herself again.

  


  
He flexed his fingers and started again, harder and faster this time. Second winds usually took a firmer touch, from what he remembered. One hand came off the headboard and fingernails dug into his shoulder. She buried her face in his chest as smaller, sharper spasms burst through her body. He pulled away as she whispered words he couldn’t hear, finally going limp beside him. 

  


  
Her eyes closed, lips parted, still breathing hard, she didn’t notice he had gotten up from the bed until she felt him press a cold glass of water into her hand. She heard his low voice by her ear.

  


  
“You looked thirsty.” 

  


  
She nodded as she wrapped slim fingers around the glass.

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
   
“You’ve appointed this room quite well. “ She caught a glimpse of the flowered pitcher and deep washbasin on its marble-topped stand as she pushed the last pins into her chignon.

  


  
He finished the stiff snaps of his new long johns, then reached for his pants. “Yeah, I have you to thank for that.”

  


  
She turned, giving him a questioning look.

  


  
“I mean, you telling me what to look for, as far as nice furniture.”

  


  
She pinned her hat onto her hair.

  


  
“You sure you’re ready to face the world? You still look a little freshly fucked to me.”

  


  
“Quite sure.” She patted her hair. “One of the ladies who used to visit Father in his rooms once told me that if a lady’s coif is impeccably neat, most people’s eyes will stop there and not register higher color or altered gait.”

  


  
He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve mentioned your father’s lady friends before. Why do you suppose they presumed to give you instructions and the like?”

  


  
Her face turned hard as she continued to look in the mirror. “I suppose, knowing my father, they suspected I’d need to know such things at some point, and they didn’t believe my mother would be a reliable source.”

  


  
He waited as she pulled on her gloves.

  


  
“I need to go collect my daughter, but if you have any preliminary figures on your winter pasture proposal, I’d be happy to look over them tonight and discuss them with Mr. Starr first thing in the morning. Then perhaps a full meeting on the matter by Wednesday?”

  


  
“With the understandin’ that this is very preliminary until I can sit down with Mr. Bullock and get more particulars about anticipated expenses.”

  


  
“Of course. I hope you have a productive discussion.” Al tried but failed to catch any bitter, bitchy underlying tone. Maybe this had been good for her mind as well as body.

  


  
She was buttoning her jacket as she walked past Dan at the bar. He noticed her heels weren’t hitting the floor so hard now.

  


  
“Good meetin’?”

  


  
She gave him a little half-smile. “I found it so, but feel free to solicit Mr. Swearengen’s opinion on the matter.”

  


  
 _Not for all the tea in fuckin’ China_ , he thought as he watched her leave.

  


  
He looked up at Al at the banister. Tried not to stare at the snow-white new long johns under Al’s vest.

  


  
 _Good, my ass… must have been one hell of a meetin’, she can get him into new duds._  
He shook his head and went back to stacking clean glasses. 

  


  
 _Shaping up to be an interesting winter._

 __

  


  


  
 


End file.
